


The color of home

by Angry_gremlin_commando



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Homesickness, Magnai Is Secretly A Softie Fight Me, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 01:17:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16587971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angry_gremlin_commando/pseuds/Angry_gremlin_commando
Summary: They meant well, when they convinced him to go on a pilgrimage - a journey so the Sun may guide him to his Nhaama. Nobody really expected him to wash up in Limsa Lominsa without a gil to his name. Magnai tries to eke out a living as a broke adventurer among many others and at the end of the day, even the Most Radiant Brother isn't immune to homesickness.





	The color of home

Magnai lay on his back and stared at the ceiling of the tiny room he occupied since he washed up in Eorzea. His axe was left by the wall, discarded like the worthless garbage it was. A cheap thing, its metal barely strong enough to withstand his swings, but he couldn’t afford any better. His own, the one he went through so much to earn, was lost to the ocean.

Some state he was in, proud Khan of the Oronir. He should not have let them talk him into taking a pilgrimage to find his Nhaama, he should not have let the sun glimmering on the waves call him to the ocean, should not have, should not…

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, his landlady would say, and while he wasn’t quite sure what that meant exactly he got the gist. He made a mistake, a rushed decision and now was reaping the consequences.

He snarled at the shifting shadows and got to his feet. His stubbornness served him well and he annoyed the marauders guild into employing him, if only reluctantly. It seemed that was the best he could hope for. He was a foreigner, his people strangers to this land, and they treated him with distrust.

Still, a permit meant that he could find work and work meant gil. Not enough that he could decline the charity of the old Miqo'te crafter who took him under her wing, but enough that he could send a letter, a message home to reassure his people that he didn’t end up on the bottom of the sea along with his belongings.

He mumbled something on his way out when she inquired where he was going. The old Miqo'te always watched him with the same kind of exasperation the shepherd wore when he looked at his difficult sheep just as it was about to wander off and fall into a ditch. There was always one like that, too curious and determined for its own good. Magnai preferred not to contemplate what this said about him.

The sun was still high, but the wind brought cold air from the ocean which made the shadows feel chilly. Magnai steeled himself not to show reaction to the chill, but changed his path to pass by the merchants’ stalls and buy a shirt. If he were to go out in the evenings or gods forbid at night then he would have need of one.

Only in the privacy of his mind did he dare to admit that he would miss the appreciative looks his bare chest provoked.

* * *

He stared at the bright yellow Doman silk laid carelessly among the other fabrics. Not the kind of shirt he could afford or even one he would usually wish to wear. Too flimsy, too fine for a warrior of the Oronir, but the color…

Ignoring the alarmed look of the merchant he pulled it out from under a midnight blue chemise and held it up to inspect it further. It seemed the right size, perhaps tailored for one of their distant Raen cousins. It would certainly explain the fineness of the fabric. The color was even more brilliant in the light, as if it were spun from sunlight. Magnai’s feeling of awe was ruined by the dull stains marring one of the sleeves, like someone let it drag on the ground at one point.

“Is this the care you show to all of your wares?” The lalafell merchant irritably tried to swipe it from his hands, but Magnai effortlessly held it out of his reach.

“Buy it or give it back! That old rag gives me enough headache without the likes of you messing with my wares.”

“What is wrong with it?”

“Do you have eyes, my man? How am I supposed to sell something so heinous in color? I hoped someone would pay the price for the fabric alone, but nobody is that desperate for Doman silk.” He held his hand out again pointedly, clearly done humoring Magnai and his questions.

Magnai considered the shirt in his hand, the warm sunlight color taunting him with memories of home. It wasn’t the same the Oronir wore, but it was close. Close enough to make his heart ache.

“How much?”

* * *

“Let me get this straight: you spent every last gil you had on the most obnoxious yellow shirt I have seen in my life because it reminded you of home?” Magnai avoided looking at his landlady while she inspected the stains.

“Your tone suggest that you disapprove.” His hand went to the letter in his pocket to make sure it was still there. He had no funds left to send it, not this time. He’d have to go back to the guild and sign up for something tomorrow.

“Disapprove is too strong a word. I was surprised, that’s all.” She considered the cloth for a minute, then gestured for him to stand. “Come on, try it on. I want to see if I need to adjust it anywhere if I’m going to handle it anyway.”

Magnai reluctantly pulled the shirt on, then spread his arms, bracing for mockery.

“Well?”

“I can’t say I like the color, but I’m not the one who will be wearing it. If it makes you stop frowning all the time, gods know I’ll do us both a favor by fixing it up.”

“I do not frown all the time.” He didn’t see where she got the pins from, but he definitely felt when she jabbed him with one. When Magnai glared at her she just wiggled her ears at him. She was half his size and old enough to be his grandmother, yet she treated him like a soft-scaled youth.

“If you were my son, I’d warn you that your face will be stuck if you frown so much, but I’m afraid you are well past the point of no return.” He craned his neck to look down on her.

“Have they ever told you that you can be rather meanspirited for a little old lady?”

“To that I should answer that you don’t know nearly enough old ladies. There are few creatures more mean spirited than an old woman who was denied gossip.” He shook with silent laughter which earned him yet another jab. “Stand still, you oaf! I’m trying to work.”

He took a deep breath and stilled his body, turning his attention to his thoughts. Somewhere on the Steppe the first rays of the morning sun touched the Dawn Throne. The trappers set out to check what prey the night had brought. Somewhere, Daidukul turned over in his sleep and nestled closer to the warm embrace of a lover or three, and Sadu woke to the sun dressing the Dawn Throne in gold and shook her fist at the Oronir, at Magnai, like she always did.

Somewhere out there was home.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been struggling to get inspiration to cooperate and work on stuff I had in progress (RP replies. Hey that next fanfic chapter I have already written and I only need to edit into a readable format) with no success at all so I decided that any writing is better than no writing. Maybe I can get the spare inspiration out of my system and go back to writing what I should be writing.
> 
> This is a self contained little thing, but if I can wrangle my mind into working on the things I want I might turn it into a series of little shorts in between the more ongoing stuff. I have a few ideas bouncing around about Magnai and his journey.


End file.
